


use me just to make your body feel right

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, BDSM, Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-13
Updated: 2007-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-02 16:36:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8674726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: They like to call him puppy. Sam doesn't mind. [AU; hooker!Sam]





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

**use me just to make your body feel right***  
*god killed the queen – louis xiv  
**Fandom:** _Supernatural_ (Slash)  
**Summary:** They like to call him puppy. Sam doesn’t mind. [AU; hooker!Sam]  
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Word Count:** ~5,300  
**Pairings:** Sam/Dean, Sam/OMCs  
**Warnings:** prostitution, incest, slash, sexual scenes, language, mention of bondage and blood  
**Author’s Notes:** *head desk* wow, I can’t believe I wrote this. It’s like, _whoah_ , not me. Because it involves _porn_ and stuff that makes me think way too much about how young I and how I haven’t done _anything_ remotely sexual. But, here I am, with this fic, giving it to you. Enjoy it, dammit.  
  
Much much _much_ thanks to [ ](http://unamaga.livejournal.com/profile)[**unamaga**](http://unamaga.livejournal.com/) for the cheerleading, hand-holding and betas. *KISSES* Also, she thought of calling Sam puppy, so she wins!   
  
 

> -  
>    
>  It starts in Montana. They're running out of money, the credit cards are long gone, lost two states back since the feds are on their ass and Dean can't risk forging another one yet. Sam's not sure if there's a difference between _i can't_ and _i won't_ , but he doesn't ask when Dean tells him to go out and get some food.  
>    
>  He's only handed a ten dollar bill and he knows _his_ wallet is empty.  
>    
>  Sam wanders the streets of the big town, small city for an hour, trying to find a diner with a special; a two-for-one deal that Dean will actually eat. The streets are bare and the hazy light of the flickering lamp posts tosses Sam in and out of the shadows; he’s fully aware of everything around him.  
>    
>  He hears the roar of a car, the idling of an engine slowing down and the low hum of brakes. He turns slowly, reaching for his back pocket, but finding no gun. He curses under his breath as the car pulls up along the sidewalk and the window rolls down, soft rock curling over the air.   
>    
>  Sam stepped back slightly when a face appeared from the inside of the car – a middle-aged man, his face creased with laugh lines and age. He runs his hand through his hair and looks around nervously, a half-fast devious grin on his face.  
>    
>  “Hey,” he says low and husky.  
>    
>  Sam blinks.   
>    
>  The guy leans back into his car for a minute and appears again – Sam could run, but he’s glued to the spot. The guy looks back up at him. “How much you goin’ for?”  
>    
>  Sam stiffens. He knows exactly what this guy is here for. He doesn’t even have to _think_ , not with the way the guy is licking his lips and looking Sam up and down, greed eating through his eyes.  
>    
>  Sam almost backs off, but he thinks to the hanging emptiness of his wallet and the ten dollar bill in his sweaty palm. He breathes deeply, stares at the man in the car and wonders, if he tries hard enough, that there could be more benefit than consequences if he gets into the car.  
>    
>  The man opens the door and Sam slides in without hesitance, all ease and heavy lust that he turns on immediately. “Whatever you want, one hour, eight hundred.” He has no idea what he’s doing, but the guy isn’t asking questions and that really seems like a good thing.  
>    
>  “So fucking pretty,” the man whispers, eyes dark and searching, smile curling at the corner of his lips.  
>    
>  Sam swallows hard.  
>    
>  -  
>    
>  The first time is all awkward angles and bated breath. Sam never finds out the guys name, but he feels every part of him imprinted into his body. He knows the searing ache won’t leave him for days.  
>    
>  He wants to cry from the pain, the way the guy rips him open, raw and bare, on a dirty motel bed on the out skirts of the town; he’s bracing himself against the wall, arms shaking, knees crumpling, cock thick and throbbing. There’s a wedding ring by his head, loose and sliding on sweaty skin. Sam keeps his eyes on it and tries not to think about what’s waiting for this man at home.   
>    
>  He doesn’t want to know what’s waiting for him either.  
>    
>  The guy whispers dirty and hot into his ear, pounding in with each word so no matter how hard Sam tries to forget the words, they’re stuck right there with this. Flashes of the man’s face, the hotel wall paper, his body so bruised and _wanting_ ; Sam’ll never be able to let it go.  
>    
>  The guy fucks him everywhere – on the bed, against the wall, in the bathroom and Sam keeps coming. He doesn’t know _why_ or _how_ , but he does. He comes with a moan, comes with colors flashing in his eyes and a hot hand not his own wrapped around him.  
>    
>  The room smells like sweat and sex; it’s covered in grey moonlight and scattered clothes and it’s filled with steady moans, steady thrusts. Sam thinks it’s beautiful, in a sick and twisted way. He curls his fingers into fists and takes it, hips bucking with each thrust.  
>    
>  “So fucking pretty.” Hot tongue down his back, over the knobs in his spine and Sam’s back arches, cock brushing against the wall, painful and blissful. “Come for me again. Come on, pretty.”  
>    
>  The hand wraps around his cock and squeezes, pulls, twists and it’s too much all at once. Sam’s knees give out beneath him, spurts of his come painting the wall, and he’s caught around the waist, the man still thrusting up into him and causing him to shake.   
>    
>  “So good, so good.” The man pulls out and lets Sam fall to his knees, held up by his trembling arms.   
>    
>  He wretches when the man isn’t looking, feeling the sick bile rise in his throat and sit there, trying not to let the _ohgodohgod what have i done?_ surface. He crawls onto the bed, curling into a safe ball and the bills fall over him like warm rain when the guy throws them onto the bed.  
>    
>  The guy leans over and pulls Sam in for a rough kiss, all teeth and tongue and Sam finds himself kissing the man back just as fiercely. The man grins, running his fingers along Sam’s jaw. “Expect me around again.”  
>    
>  When the door slams shut, Sam turns over and throws up, the sounds still ringing his ears, the smell lingering heavy in his nose and the feeling – God, the _feeling_ \- making him hard again.  
>    
>  \-   
>    
>  “Jesus Christ!” Dean shouts when Sam stumbles in, a paper bag tucked under his arm. He has his shoes halfway tied and he’s dialing a number into his cell phone, but drops it as soon as Sam sets the food down.  
>    
>  “Hey Dean,” Sam says in a tired voice. “I didn’t know if you wanted the –“  
>    
>  Dean’s hands fly to Sam’s shoulders to spin him away from the table and face him. His eyes are wide and searching and Sam feels like puking again. “Where the _fuck_ have you been?”  
>    
>  Sam blinks. He turns back to the table and starts pulling out the food. “Getting food.”  
>    
>  “But does it take you fucking two hours to get it?” Dean demands, leaning against the table so he can look Sam in the face. “Fuck, dude, I was worried.”  
>    
>  Sam shakes his head, knuckling his eyes. “Please, Dean. Stop saying fuck. _Please_.” The bile is rising in his throat again; he can hear the man’s words everywhere. _So pretty when you’re on your knees._   
>    
>  Dean recoils, looking surprised and slightly deterred. “Sam, you’re a mess. What happened?”  
>    
>  Sam rolls his shoulders back, hoping to relieve some tension. It only builds. “Nothing. Just. Let’s eat and go to bed, okay?”  
>    
>  Dean hesitates before nodding. He toes his boots off and sits down at the table, opposite Sam and watches him the entire time they eat, his eyes wavering beneath his eyelashes.  
>    
>  Sam spends the entire night sitting in the tub, scrubbing his body until it bleeds. He feels so fucked up, so dirty, so _wrong_ , but he knows he’d do it all over again.  
>    
>  He knows he _will_.  
>    
>  -  
>    
>  It’s early the next morning and Dean’s digging through his stuff, obviously searching for some clue as to where Sam was the night before.  
>    
>  “Where’d you get this money?”  
>    
>  Sam rolls over, still half-asleep, in the bed and squints. “Get what?”  
>    
>  “Sam, there is _eight hundred dollars_ in your jacket pocket.” Dean holds up the wad as a point. “Obviously, something went on last night. I want to know.”  
>    
>  “Just played some pool. No biggie.” Sam rolls back over and buries his face in the pillow. He hopes Dean won’t ask.  
>    
>  \-   
>    
>  The money lasts them until the next town. Sam sneaks out when he’s sure Dean is sleeping and stands on the corner of main street, near the town limits. The streets are bare and he waits for hours. He doesn’t know if anyone will come.   
>    
>  Dawn is breaking when a car pulls up – this time, a younger man. Around his age. Baby blue eyes and a soft face. Sam opens the door himself and slides in.  
>    
>  “Anything you want, one hour, eight hundred.”  
>    
>  The guy flashes him a questioning look. He fiddles with the stereo. There’s a picture of a girl clipped onto the dashboard. “What about two hours?”  
>    
>  Sam fingers the picture of the brunette. “Sixteen hundred.”  
>    
>  They drive back to the guy’s apartment and fuck for two hours straight. The guy ties him up and Sam doesn’t mind; rather likes the detached sense of control that this man possesses over him. He likes to struggle against the ropes, feel his wrists crack and bend and the scrape of teeth against skin. He likes it like this, he decides.  
>    
>  The room is too clean and they stain every surface of it, rubbing against it, bending over it and letting themselves come completely undone on it. Sam still shakes, still thinks _ohgodohgod_ but the ripping pleasure drowns it out. He pushes back now, wanting – needing – more.   
>    
>  He guy rides his mouth when he’s still bound to the bed and Sam swallows it like it’s all he’s ever done. It’s bitter and salty in the back of this throat, but the weight and the unsteady brush of this guy’s cock against his tongue sends him somewhere over this far off edge.   
>    
>  Sam leaves with a little more dignity this time; the guy hands him the money and kisses the inside of his elbow softly, almost lovingly, before Sam rushes out of the apartment, his entire body trembling with the excitement. He counts the money hastily, shoving it in his pocket.  
>    
>  Dean’s still sleeping when he gets back. This time, he doesn’t scrub so hard.  
>    
>  \-   
>    
>  He does it in every town; leaves after Dean’s snoring and comes back before Dean can fully ever realize that he left. His prices go up and even if the guys get weirder, even if the requests get more frightening, he sticks to _anything you want_.   
>    
>  It promises that they won’t think about backing out.   
>    
>  Dean doesn’t really believe that Sam hustles pool or wins poker tournaments because Sam always thought it was unjust and he sucked at both anyway. But Dean eats it up because Sam can’t offer a better excuse. Sam’s sure Dean doesn’t want to know the truth anyway.  
>    
>  He sees every form of man (and woman, on the odd occasion) cross his path – he doesn’t discriminate. Sam doesn’t know why he keeps going back; like an addiction, a need; a purpose. Maybe. It’s alluring, beautiful in a fucked up way and he craves it.  
>    
>  And what are they but another face? He doesn’t put names to faces, people to bodies; they’re there and then they’re gone. Sam doesn’t think about connections or relationships or _knowing_.  
>    
>  He gets better, more organized in a way, and can take in about three tricks a night. He waits on curb sides, sucking back cigarettes because he still shakes from the nerves; the adrenaline. They drive by slow, making sure it’s him and he crawls in, repeating the same mantra and they do what they want.  
>    
>  Sam never puts a purpose to the action, just a fast way to fill an empty need.  
>    
>  One man calls him puppy in a seedy hotel room that’s painted all dark, muted colors and Sam likes it.   
>    
>  -  
>    
>  It’s New York and September and freezing, but Sam stripes off his jacket and shoves it behind a dumpster. He emerges onto the empty street in jeans and a t-shirt and lights a cigarette to stop his shaking. He’s only a block away from the motel and they were tracking down a poltergeist via phone call – a job in between a job – and Sam knew he could turn out at least seven tricks if he went fast.   
>    
>  He turns out four before two, all quickies, and pockets five thousand. He even ends up fucking a guy (on request) dirty and slow against the brick walls in the back alley. The man moaned _puppy_ when Sam grinded his hips down and Sam loved it. He always loves it.  
>    
>  The fifth man approaches him on foot, head bent and hands shoved into his jacket pockets, eyes covered by shadows and hair. Sam flicks out the cigarette, watching the embers burn on the pavement.  
>    
>  “Heard about you,” the man greets. He looks at Sam uncertainly. “Anything?”  
>    
>  Sam nods. Word travels fast or maybe the all have an inner-circuit. Either way, he doesn’t care. “Anything.” He shudders, only for a moment. He doesn’t know if it’s from the cold. “One hour, thousand bucks.”  
>    
>  The man smiles, relief crossing his fine features. “Sweet.”  
>    
>  Sam bites back a laugh and follows the man. He doesn’t realize where they are until he sees the Impala parked in front of the hotel room and he freezes in the lot. The man looks back at him.  
>    
>  “You coming?”   
>    
>  “Yeah.” He rubs his eyes and passes the drawn blinds of his hotel room. The room is three downs from his and he feels a little lighter, a little more at ease.  
>    
>  “They call you puppy?” The man asks once they’re inside, leaning against the door, fingers wound on the door knob.  
>    
>  Sam unfolds his arms and sits down on the bed, legs straddled and open. Ready. “They do. But you can call me what you want.” Sam can see the man swallow. “I’m waiting.”  
>    
>  The man flips him over and fucks him hot and rough, grunts accentuating each thrust. Sam hears _puppy_ and _so tight_ mix in with the moans and he wonders if Dean can hear.  
>    
>  He kind of wishes Dean could see him like this, so fucked out and willing. He lets his barriers down, throws boundaries and limits and morals to the wind when he’s like this and it feels so perfect.  
>    
>  The guy has his hand pushed on the lower of Sam’s back, holding him there with his hips and his weight. Sam rotates his hips to move against the mattress, to give his cock and his screaming head some solace, but the man orders him to stop.  
>    
>  Sam always obeys orders.  
>    
>  “Come on, puppy. Come on. Come for me, whore.”  
>    
>  Sam hopes Dean hears him moan, deep and angry, three doors down.   
>    
>  The man rolls off of him, falling onto the bed and panting. Sam pulls his pants off and jumps off the bed, like he had just woken up from a sleep. He’s gotten used to it – there’s no more burning ache, no more raw-torn feeling for days after. He can take it for hours and he barely winces. He misses gripping skin tight enough to bruise, to bleed.  
>    
>  The sex was always better that way.  
>    
>  “Money’s on the dresser,” the man pants.   
>    
>  Sam grabs the wad and walks out of the room, flicking through the money with a sense of overwhelming joy.   
>    
>  “Sam.”  
>    
>  Sam stops. Looks up and there’s Dean, hair messed and face pissed and wearing only sweat pants and a t-shirt.  
>    
>  “What the fuck is going on?” Dean demands and this time he means it. This time, there are no excuses. He looks ready to explode. “What the hell have you been doing?”  
>    
>  Sam feels a blush work its way up his neck, licking hot and obvious. “I don’t know what –”  
>    
>  Dean brushes the wad of bills hanging from Sam’s hands. ”Stop trying to play innocent with me, I can see right through your bullshit, Sam! I heard you.” Dean’s face tightens. “You’re whoring yourself.” He almost looks hurt by this accusation.  
>    
>  Sam frowns, pursing his lips. “It’s getting us money.”  
>    
>  “I don’t care if it buys us the entire world, you are not doing this anymore,” Dean barks.   
>    
>  “I can do this if I want to.” Sam pushes past Dean, shouldering him roughly and going back to counting his money.  
>    
>  Dean laughs dryly. “Oh no, Sam, this is not a decision where you can use that excuse.” He stalks up to Sam, spins him around, pushes him into the wall of the hotel. The force makes the pillars quiver. “My brother is _not_ going to be a whore.”  
>    
>  Sam tries to wriggle free from Dean’s vice grip, but he can feel his brother’s nails digging into his arms. “Too late,” Sam hisses through gritted teeth.  
>    
>  Dean slaps Sam, the sound echoing across the empty parking lot and in Sam’s head. He holds his face, looking away, mouth hanging open in shock. He glances at Dean – he doesn’t look sorry. His fingers are twitching into fists.  
>    
>  “It’s too late, Dean,” Sam says again. He waits for Dean to punch him, he can see it in his eyes, but he doesn’t move.   
>    
>  Dean’s breathing hard through his nose, chest heaving. They stand staring at each other for a few minutes, resentment and anger rising between them thickly until Sam can’t see, his entire vision clouded over with red.  
>    
>  “Would you fuck me?” Dean asks, quiet and almost not there. Not true.  
>    
>  Sam’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t say anything.  
>    
>  Dean takes a step closer and Sam flinches. “Are you that much of a whore that you’d fuck your own brother?”  
>    
>  Sam watches Dean for a few minutes, their eyes burning into each other. “Yes,” he answers through gritted teeth and presses their faces together, not aiming for lips, just aiming for Dean. He licks and sucks, not caring where his teeth or tongue land. He just wants to _taste_.  
>    
>  Their bodies meld together, so close you can’t tell them apart, and Dean’s pushing into Sam and Sam’s pushing back, hands wrapped up in hair and shirts and everything. Sam’s still pissed at Dean, still wants to punch him, claw at his skin and make him hurt and he knows Dean feels the same way, but Sam can feel the burning in him already, just with Dean’s mouth on his and he wants to feel more.  
>    
>  He can’t stop now, not without knowing how this all ends.   
>    
>  The door’s still opened to the guy’s room and they burst in, stumbling over each other’s feet, hands moving to tear off clothing.   
>    
>  “Hey!” the guy yells in protest. Sam pushes him out of the way blindly, arms wrapping around Dean’s waist and pulls him down onto the bed.  
>    
>  “What do they call you?” Dean bites out when he pulls away; his face is dark and livid. Sam loves it.   
>    
>  Sam reaches up and nibbles on Dean’s ear. “Make me scream, Dean,” Sam begs, low and needy. The voice he’s used on everyone before Dean.  
>    
>  “ _What_ do they call you?” Dean asks again, pressing each word.  
>    
>  Sam stares at him. “Puppy.” He runs his hands over Dean’s back, up under his shirt and feels Dean’s skin quiver at the touch.  
>    
>  Dean grinds down into Sam’s stomach. “Puppy. _My_ puppy.” He tears off his shirt and Sam’s takes off his and their teeth clash together again.   
>    
>  Sam hears the guy he had just fucked whisper _holy shit_ but the sound of the door opening and closing never comes. He smiles into Dean’s shoulder as his brother kisses down his bare chest, tongue licking a hot line over his skin; he’s never had a spectator. Dean doesn’t seem to mind either.  
>    
>  “Slower, Dean.” Sam arches his back, fingers twined in the short hairs at the nape of Dean’s neck. He moans, hearing the hitched breath of the man in the corner and smiles victoriously. “Yeah, like that.”  
>    
>  Dean leaves a trail of sloppy kisses down Sam’s navel, tongue sliding into the dip of his pelvis, fingers running along the edge of Sam’s pants. “Do you beg, puppy?”  
>    
>  Sam keens, nodding and pushing up into Dean when he presses his lips against the bulge in Sam’s pants. He writhes, hoping Dean will take the hint and get to it, but Dean just grins and slides back up Sam’s body so they’re face to face.  
>    
>  “How many have you fucked tonight?” Dean whispers.  
>    
>  “Five,” Sam answers breathlessly.  
>    
>  Dean nuzzles Sam’s shoulder. “You smell like them. Did you like it?”  
>    
>  Sam nods. His fingers jump over Dean’s skin.  
>    
>  “Dirty whore,” Dean hisses and Sam loves it.   
>    
>  Dean unbuckles his belt and pulls Sam’s pants down to his ankles. Sam kicks them and his boxers off, his cock, full and blood-red, exposed to the dark room. Dean’s lips hover over the head for a few seconds before he swipes his tongue along the slit and finally takes Sam into his mouth, all the way down so that Sam has to gasp.  
>    
>  There’s sound of vehicles outside the door and _holy sweet mother of jesus_ repeated like a prayer, like beautiful music. Sam’s lost in something, twisting towards it as Dean’s nails dig hard enough to bruise. He wants the damage; the memory _on_ him.   
>    
>  Teeth scraping, drawn out and feather-light and he’s shaking, breath short and quick. He’s drinking in something – heavy air and dark eyes flickering in street lamps – and it’s filling him up, spilling over and just laying on him.   
>    
>  “What do I taste like?” Sam asks in between breathes. He blinks sweat out of his eyes.  
>  Dean hums in the back of his throat. “Like them.”   
>    
>  Sam notes the hint of desperation in Dean’s voice. He bucks up into Dean’s mouth, watches his brother’s pink lips take him all in; he feels the wave of _ohgod_ course through his veins and the flash of fireworks in his eyes when he comes. He turns to look at the guy; he’s sitting in the corner, watching intently, eyes glazed over.  
>    
>  Sam reaches out for him, fingers falling over the edge of the bed, wrapping in sheets and sweat. He doesn’t beckon, just stares, fingers curling into a loose fist. He grins.  
>    
>  Dean’s eyes flutter close, hands spreading out across Sam’s stomach when he rises up. He licks his lips, eyes dark and fucked; he leans forward, hot wet breath snaking over Sam’s skin. It sends shivers down Sam’s spine and _nownownow_ pulsing through his veins.  
>    
>  “Gonna fuck you, puppy,” Dean whispers against Sam’s ear. Sam digs his nails into Dean’s shoulder blades. “Better than the rest. M’better than them, right?”  
>    
>  “Fuck me.” Sam grinds up into Dean, teeth bared. “Now.”   
>    
>  Dean’s face is unreadable as he flips Sam over, hands pressed against the small of his back and holding him there. Sam wouldn’t move, even if he could. Sam wraps his fists into the sheets and folds his arms under his head; bracing, waiting. He waits to hear Dean suck on his fingers and fuck him open; he gets the sharp hurt when Dean lowers himself in without warning.  
>    
>  Sam bites his lip, hard, to stop from screaming. He digs his nails into the mattress, tries not to beg for ease, but it escapes past his lips in a hoarse plead.  
>    
>  “Little whore,” Dean mutters into Sam’s neck. “Don’t need it.”  
>    
>  And Sam doesn’t.   
>    
>  Dean doesn’t go slow and Sam doesn’t expect it; Dean’s pissed and this is his deranged way of getting back at Sam. Like fucking Sam will teach him a lesson, not make him want more, like it is. Sam only stays in this fucking thing because of the want. He lives for it. And maybe it will teach Sam a lesson; teach Sam that he’s gone so low, that he _craves_ Dean inside him and it doesn’t bother him.  
>    
>  He has for weeks. Ever since this _thing_ started.  
>    
>  Dean bites down on his back, deep and sharp enough to bleed and Sam feels it trickle down his back in sluggish currents, oozing and deliberate. Dean’s laps up the blood, small droplets on sweat-soaked skin.   
>    
>  Heat and blood rush to Sam’s cock and he’s filling up with leaded warmth, sinking deep into him and everything becomes more surreal. Dean’s hands gripping the pillow beside his head; lights outside the window; the man still in the corner, watching. His brother inside him, grinding down and full, shaking and cursing him – cursing Sam – for making him do this.  
>    
>  “S’all your fault, puppy.” Dean shifts his body and hits _right there_. Sam gasps into the pillow, biting down onto his fist. “Gotta make you know.”  
>    
>  “K-know what?” Sam can’t catch his breath fast enough. Fingers, fingers in his skin, bruising and leaving all the marks he ever wanted to paint his body.  
>    
>  “I _hate_ you for this.”  
>    
>  He comes then, hot and messy, on the hotel sheets for the third time that night. He stares wide-eyed into the dark, hearing Dean moan out his orgasm, push down and collapse boneless onto his back.  
>    
>  Sam starts to curl into himself. He can feel something heavy rise in his throat.  
>    
>  Dean crawls off the bed a few minutes later, tells the guy to get out and starts dressing. Sam presses his face back into the pillow and lays there. He’s naked and bare and open and fisting his hands into the sheets. He looks up when the bed shifts and Dean’s lacing up his boots.  
>    
>  Sam sits up and reaches for his brother’s arm. “Dean.”  
>    
>  Dean rolls his shoulders back, shoots a dark look over his shoulder and stands up. His hands shake. Sam can see them as they run through his hair.  
>    
>  Sheets are wrapped around his hips and its sweat and drops of blood everywhere around Sam – the wounds are starting to burn. He feels his chest collapse in on itself; something’s broken. “Dean, look at me.”  
>    
>  Dean stares at the floor, face dancing with shadows and regret. He shrugs on his jacket and rubs his eyes. “Fuck you, Sam.”  
>    
>  Sam cringes when the door slams shut.   
>    
>  -  
>    
>  Sam wakes up in the hotel room, sticky with sweat and dried come. He touches his stomach, fingers fanned out across hot skin. He sits there, staring at dark walls, his legs lifeless and sore, hidden under the covers.  
>    
>  He waits for Dean to come back; he watches the window, cause he’s not ready to believe it yet.  
>    
>  He showers and tries to jerk off, but all he can see is Dean’s regret and the words _fuck you, Sam_ repeating in his head. He wants to fix it, but he knows it was beyond fixing even before it started.  
>    
>  The money spills across the floor when he pulls on his pants. He runs to the bathroom, leans over the toilet and wretches, but nothing comes. He’s empty.  
>    
>  He staggers, mindless and shapeless, to the hotel room and knocks lightly. The door clicks and there’s a flash of bright light and Dean’s face. His brother face falls at the sight of him.  
>    
>  “God, Dean.” Sam swallows around the lump in his throat.  
>    
>  Dean’s face contorts and his eyes cloud over. “Get in here,” he orders and slams the door shut when Sam’s in.  
>    
>  Sam feels odd and out of place in a world that’s all his own until he realizes he’s shifted. He sits down on the bed, hands folded in his lap and watches Dean sift through papers on the desk. Dean sits down, facing Sam and rubs his eyes.   
>    
>  Sam watches.  
>    
>  “Dean, I –”  
>    
>  “Just shut up, Sam, okay?” Dean bites out harshly. “Just – never again. _Ever_.”  
>    
>  Sam’s eyes fall to his hands. He twines them together; flashes of the first night in his mind, mixing with Dean and everything. “I – I always thought about you, Dean.”  
>    
>  Dean slams his fist down on the table. Sam jumps. “Jesus Christ, Sam, that’s not the point! I didn’t _want_ to do that.” Dean’s face contorts into something disgusting and malicious – something _real_. “I thought it’d show you just how fucked up you really are.”  
>    
>  Sam looks up at Dean. He can feel the clench back in his chest and it’s squeezing so tightly he can’t breathe. “You’re supposed to _save_ me.”  
>    
>  “I can’t _save_ you from your mistakes, Sam. _You_ made them.”  
>    
>  Sam’s in Dean’s lap before he can stop himself, hands wrapping around his body and crashing their lips together so it hurts. Sam wants it to hurt all over. It’s only then he’ll know it’s real.   
>    
>  “Get off me, Sam,” Dean mutters into the kiss, but he doesn’t break away.   
>    
>  “Love me, Dean.” Sam feels the tears on his lips. He wraps his fingers in Dean’s and places them on his chest; he’s still trying to breath. “God, please, _love_ me.”  
>    
>  Dean stares at their fingers, trembling and intertwined; his lips move, but there’s no sound and Sam’s waiting. He watches Dean’s face, watches for _anything_ but there’s nothing there. Sam’s getting desperate and his breath hitches and his fingers tighten around Dean’s, because he knows he needs this.  
>    
>  Dean shakes his head and his eyes lock on Sam’s. He pulls his fingers from Sam’s grip; they fall away effortlessly. “I can’t.” He pushes Sam off gently. Sam stumbles back, ready to fall to his knees because it seems the air is too heavy to hold and he can feel it all; too much, too quickly.  
>    
>  “Why not?” Sam’s voice is breathless and high. His hands are running over Dean’s face, down the side, along his jaw, tracing his lips. Dean shudders. “Why?”  
>    
>  Dean shifts, turns his head away and Sam’s hands fall to his shoulders. “Because I can’t save you this time.”  
>    
>  And Sam understands.   
>    
>  -  
>    
>  Dean leaves and Sam doesn’t wonder where he’s gone. He can smell the heated scent of sex and cheap perfume and stale alcohol when Dean comes back. Dean stares at him for a bit, eyes lidded and glazed, before he falls onto the bed and passes out.  
>    
>  Sam sits with his head in his hands, tucked into the dark corner.  
>    
>  He crawls in after Dean’s snoring and sleeps with his face to Dean’s back. He brings his knees to his chest and waits for the curtains to cut through the light until he slides back into his bed and stares at the ceiling. Sam lays beside Dean, wide awake, all night.  
>    
>  Dean rolls over in the bed, rubbing his eyes. He sits up quickly. “You’re awake early.”  
>    
>  Sam glances over at him, feeling so vacant and big; he can’t fill it up. “I didn’t go anywhere.”  
>    
>  Dean frowns. “I know.” But he digs through Sam’s pockets anyway, just to be sure. He comes up with nothing and nods curtly at Sam before disappearing into the bathroom.  
>    
>  Sam almost follows him. Almost. Instead, he rolls over and waits for Dean.  
>    
>  -  
>    
>  Dean could put up locks and keep an eye on him; he could tie him to the bed and threaten him, but he doesn’t. He knows Sam’s going to keep making the same mistake and he’s not going to take the blame.  
>    
>  But Dean puts barriers around himself. He ties himself in a place that Sam can’t reach and he threatens him with the only thing Sam has left and that’s all of him. Sam can’t get to him. Dean’s protecting Sam and for once, Sam doesn’t want the protecting.  
>    
>  They drive to different states and Sam stays out longer, for days; he hides in hotel rooms and in himself. He likes the twisted sense of dignity, like he’s still worth something, when they fuck him against a wall. He has bits of lies and sex and wallpaper underneath his fingernails for days and Dean never asks why he keeps doing it.  
>    
>  Sam likes the feel of the cool wind against his skin and he likes the feel of something inside him and it’s kind of filling up the emptiness, but he knows it’s not Dean. And that hurts him a little more than it should.  
>    
>  -


End file.
